


Never Understood My (Undeveloped Story)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a way, none of them make sense. Her least of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Understood My (Undeveloped Story)

Title: Never Understood My (Undeveloped Story)  
Pairing: Quinn-centric; Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry  
Rating: G (try not to faint)  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Up to Duets.  
Summary: In a way, none of them make sense. Her least of all.  
A/N: An idea that came to me in the shower and prevented me from finishing homework. Again. Title from Anberlin's "Undeveloped Story."

  
He plays the drums.

His hair is spiked in a gravity-defying fashion, to the point where she genuinely can’t make sense of it. He’ll sport the most inane polo shirt one day and a sweater that looks suspiciously like it’s crawled out of his mom’s closet the next. He wears sneakers as long as her face and can’t remember where his watch is long enough to don it for more than a week at a time.

He is forever bounding around like some kind of man-child-dinosaur crossbreed, growling and slashing the air with curled fingers. He can’t tell his right from his left. He doesn’t know how to sit still, or say the alphabet backwards, or pronounce a single word of Spanish that can’t be found on the Taco Bell menu. His dream job is to play for the Patriots by day and headline a .38 Special cover band by night.

He is arrogant, and foolish, and naïve.

He can’t remember what it’s like to have a father.

He has no idea how babies are made.

But his heart is kind, and his eyes are warm, and his hands, though clumsy, cradle her like she’s made of something far less wicked than her parents believe. He sings like doing so will release him from this prison of a town, and he laughs like there is no doubt to keep him awake at night, and when his mother calls, he will always, always be there.

He is real. He is strong.

She should have loved him.

***  
 

He has slept with a third of this town.

He spends more energy on his biceps than his schoolwork, until she’s pretty sure his only career aim will be on the wrong side of a strip club stage once he finally graduates high school. _If_ he finally graduates high school. He skips more classes than anyone she has ever met, and refuses to apologize for it. He refuses to apologize for _anything_.

He is tacky and insincere. He makes life into a show, every inch of him what others expect, from that godforsaken mohawk to his bad-boy charm. He plays football not because he likes it, but because of the status. He cuts the arms off of his t-shirts and rips holes in his jeans and refuses to buy new shoes even when the ones he’s wearing start to smell.

He treats people like objects, scorning men and taunting women. He thinks with his fists first, groin second, brain thirtieth. He calls her ‘babe’ until her ears thrum with irritation, and smacks her friends on their asses, and participates in an underground Fight Club. He believes that he will escape this town on a smirk and a high-five.

He is a bully, and a jerk, and a genuine waste of both talent and intellect.

He can’t fathom the purpose behind speaking his feelings out loud.

He got her pregnant.

But he plays guitar like a god, and he looks at her like she’s his first real _chance_ at something better, and when she gave up their child, his mouth was the saddest thing she has ever seen. He makes jokes with actual affection behind the words, and he prays for the father of a boy he used to abuse on a daily basis, and if anyone so much as looks at his sister sideways, he is there in an instant.

He cares. He has faith.

She tried to love him.

***  
 

He dyes his hair.

His face is too open, his eyes entirely too earnest. He has the kind of lips Angelina Jolie couldn’t take seriously. He dresses like some kind of football-playing farmboy, without any regard for what fabrics best repel slushie stains. He smiles— _at her_ —like he thinks it’ll erase a year of torment and confusion and nursing a human being into existence.

He is easily the biggest nerd she has come across in a long, long time. He gets excited about speaking _Na’vi_ —which, though not precisely as bad as Klingon, is still not something one should brag about…ever. He dances like a white boy and raps like he doesn’t even realize how awful it is. He goes to Breadstix with the intention of actually eating something _other_ than the breadsticks.

He presses her towards songs she’d never sing, not caring that she’s firing lasers from both eyes in rebuttal. He turns a deaf ear to the sarcasm she casts upon his slender shoulders, until she can’t be sure if he’s truly stupid or just stubborn. He can't spell to save his life, and thinks Dr. Seuss quotes qualify as appropriate opening lines. He is far, far too engaged in her life after knowing her only a few days.

He is lonely, and hopeful, and frustratingly optimistic.

He’s the kind of person who plays guitar right after dislocating his shoulder.

He tries to make her forget the events of last year.

But he makes her chuckle with his pathetic attempts at mimicry, and he is patient beyond sainthood as he eases her fingers to form painstaking chords, and when she growls and punches his shoulder in frustration, he throws his head back and laughs like they’ve known each other forever. He doesn’t fall for anyone’s bullshit, and he refuses to back down once his word is on the table, and the second he sees pain, his mouth closes and his ears open right up.

He is good. He is stable.

She wants to love him.

***  
 

She is bossy.

She is conceited.

She believes herself to be director, producer, and front-runner of this show they all simply play chorus for.

She can’t dress herself.

She has no sense of tact.

She hasn’t stopped talking since preschool.

She thinks she’s entitled to the world.

She wears pant suits, argyle, skirts of indecent lengths and patterns.

She sent an exchange student to a crack house.

She is out of her damn mind.

But.

She wants to be _friends_.

She is the most forgiving person on this earth.

She won’t stop smiling.

She fights for those who abuse her.

She comforts those who mock her.

She sings like she’s channeling every angel in the pantheon _every single time_.

She has the most soulful eyes, the most genuine giggle, arms that itch to embrace even the most sardonic of their pitiful little clan.

She is obnoxious, and frustrating, and hellbent on success, no matter what.

She makes her absolutely _insane_.

…

God help her. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. She’s run through the numbers, recalculated over and over again. And still she comes up with the exact same answer.

She is lunacy. She is wonderful.

And _she_ is the one Quinn Fabray can't stop loving.


End file.
